Damon Heart’s First Fisting Ever

Damon Heart and Justin Jett—the fisting frenemies turned mutual hole-wreckers—return with a sequel that doubles down on their debut’s depravity, cranking the filth dial to “obliterate.” This time, roles reverse: Damon, the seasoned fisting mentor who guided Justin through his first knuckle-deep orgasm, now begs to be on the receiving end of that same primal chaos. What follows isn’t just a scene—it’s a sweaty, lube-drenched odyssey of two muscle jocks chasing the dragon of extreme anal euphoria, no exit strategy in sight.

Damon, usually the stoic top with a fistful of lube, strips down to nothing but his cocky grin and a sheen of sweat, his hole twitching like it’s already hungry for Justin’s hand. Justin, still riding the high of his fisting awakening, prowls around him with a feral glint—part pupil, part predator now. “You sure you can handle what you taught me, dude?” Justin taunts, slapping Damon’s ass hard enough to leave a red handprint. Damon just spreads his cheeks wider, his hole winking in reply: Try me.

They start “slow”—if you can call slobbery, aggressive blowjobs and face-sitting rim sessions “slow.” Justin buries his tongue so deep in Damon’s crack, he’s practically flossing his partner’s asshair, while Damon retaliates by throat-fucking him with a brutality that’d make a porn veteran blush. But when Damon flips onto his back, legs hooked over his shoulders to expose his pink, twitching hole, all pretense of restraint evaporates. Justin rams into him bareback, his thick cock battering Damon’s prostate with jackhammer thrusts—part punishment, part prep work. “Gotta open you up nice and wide,” Justin grunts, his balls slapping Damon’s ass as the bedframe creaks in protest.

Damon’s hole, already gaping from the pounding, glistens under a waterfall of lube as Justin lubes up his hand like he’s prepping for surgery. Then—the moment. Justin’s fist, slick and swollen, presses against Damon’s rim. For a heartbeat, Damon hesitates, his body tensing… then yields, sucking Justin’s entire fist into his guts with a wet, obscene schlop. Damon’s eyes roll back, a guttural “GOD” tearing from his throat as Justin twists his wrist, knuckles grinding against Damon’s prostate. “There it is,” Justin sneers, watching Damon’s cock leak precum like a broken faucet. “Bet you never thought you’d be this much of a slut, huh?”

Damon’s response? A hoarse laugh that morphs into a scream as Justin starts punching—short, brutal thrusts that send Damon’s legs spasming. He claws at the sheets, his cock jerking wildly as his body betrays him, cumming untouched in thick, ropeshot bursts across his abs. Justin, high on power, rams his fist deeper, milking Damon’s orgasm until the man’s practically sobbing. Only then does Justin finally stroke his own dick, erupting with a roar as he paints Damon’s wrecked hole with cum, marking his former mentor as a fellow fisting convert.

By the end, both men are heaving, glazed in sweat and spend, their holes puffy and ruined. Damon’s got that thousand-yard stare of a man who’s seen the abyss—and jumped. Justin? He’s grinning like the cat who got the cream, the cream being Damon’s anal dignity. Together, they’ve crossed a Rubicon of filth, proving once and for all: in the church of fisting, everyone eventually kneels.

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